Deep in a shadowed hollow two miles beyond Cragmore's eastern treeline, three figures knelt in a circle of blackened stones. The air smelled of damp earth and the faint, sickly-sweet rot of old blood. A small fire burned low, its flames an unnatural violet that cast long, flickering shadows.
Vyx's lieutenant; a thin man named Kael with hollow cheeks and fever-bright eyes — traced a finger through the dirt, drawing the jagged symbol of the Hollow Congregation. His voice came out in a reverent whisper.
"The scouts returned. The knight woman fought like a cornered wolf. She killed two of ours before fleeing toward the village. But we learned much. Cragmore is soft. Weak walls. Few real fighters. The farmer with the scarred face… he protects it, but only half-heartedly."
Beside him, a woman with shaved head and ritual scars across her forearms smiled with too many teeth. "Vorath's will spreads. The strong will rise. The weak will break and serve. This frontier is ripe. When the main force pushes through the wastes, these little villages will fall like wheat."
Kael nodded eagerly. "The girl we almost took today — the healer's daughter — she has spirit. She would make a fine offering… or a convert. Pain teaches quickly."
The third figure, older and quieter, stared into the violet flames. "Patience. The Congregation does not rush. We weaken first. Sow fear. Let them call for heroes who will never come in time. Then we strike when their hope turns to despair."
He lifted a small bone charm carved with demonic runes. "Report to the circle. Tell them the borderlands bleed. Soon the Ashfeld will run red, and the Demon King's truth will swallow this false peace."
The three bowed their heads in unison, murmuring the creed: "Strength devours weakness. The strong rule. The weak serve or die."
Far away, in the heart of Cragmore, the village hall buzzed with uneasy voices.
It wasn't a grand building — just a long wooden structure with a raised platform at one end and benches that had seen better years. Lanterns hung from the rafters, throwing warm light over worried faces. Nearly every adult in the village had shown up after the call went out at dusk.
Mayor Elias Thorne — a stocky man in his fifties with a salt-and-pepper beard and the weathered look of someone who'd spent decades negotiating with both merchants and monsters — stood at the front. His usual easy manner was gone, replaced by grim determination.
"Listen up," Elias said, voice carrying over the murmurs. "We all heard what happened to Sable today. Demon scouts — or worse, Hollow Congregation filth — probing the trade roads. They're getting closer. The boar in the street yesterday? That wasn't random. The howls at night are louder. We can't keep pretending the borderlands will protect us forever."
Bram stood near the back, arms crossed over his massive chest. "What do you propose, Mayor? We're farmers, merchants, and retired old bastards. Not an army."
Elias nodded. "Exactly. Which is why I'm calling for a local militia. Not to march off to glory — just to protect what's ours. Patrol the edges. Man the walls at night. Train together so when trouble comes, we're not caught flat-footed."
A ripple of uneasy talk spread through the hall.
Old Henk spat on the floor. "Militia? Last time we tried something like that, half the boys got themselves killed chasing glory. I say we bar the gates tighter and let the capital handle their damn hero business."
Petra stood near the front, arms around Pip's shoulders. The girl was pale, leg bandaged and propped up. "My daughter was attacked today barely outside the village. If Garret hadn't heard her… I don't want to think about it. We need eyes out there. Even if it's just rotating watches."
Dov's deep voice rumbled from the side. "I'll stand a watch. Got strong arms and a good dog that barks at trouble."
Yissa leaned against a post, tail flicking. "I can supply extra blades and arrows at cost. But only if people actually show up to train instead of drinking their courage first."
Garret sat on a back bench, slouched low with a half-empty mug he'd brought from the tavern. He kept his scarred face turned downward, hoping no one would notice him.
Of course they did.
Elias's gaze landed on him. "Garret Mole. You've survived more scrapes out here than most. People say you handled that boar like it was nothing. And today you saved Pip. We could use a man with your… experience leading a few patrols."
Every head turned.
Garret took a slow drink, then wiped his mouth. "Experience? I threw rocks and swung a hoe. That's not leading. That's not dying when I could've stayed home."
A few people chuckled nervously.
Bram grinned. "Come on, Mole. You're already the unofficial champion of minimum effort. Make it official. Teach the young ones how to not get killed."
Pip's eyes lit up from across the room despite her scolding earlier. "Please, Mister Garret? Even if it's just showing us how to throw rocks right."
Garret groaned inwardly. The comfortable bubble he'd been building — farm, ale, occasional nights at the Velvet Lantern — was cracking faster than he liked.
He set the mug down. "Look. I'll show up for watches if it keeps the damn monsters off my crops. But I'm not leading anything. And if it turns into hero nonsense with prophecies and glowing swords, I'm out."
Elias nodded, relieved. "Fair enough. We'll start simple. Sign-ups after the meeting. Weapons practice at dawn three days a week. Extra hands on the walls at night."
As the meeting broke into smaller discussions — people arguing over shifts, supplies, who would train the kids — Garret slipped toward the door.
Sable was waiting just outside, leaning against the wall with fresh bandages under her cloak. She looked steadier than she had in the clinic, but still pale.
"Running already?" she asked quietly.
"Walking," Garret corrected. "There's a difference."
She fell into step beside him as they headed down the dark street. "They're right, you know. The cult is testing us. Today was just the start."
Garret stared straight ahead at the path leading to his farm. "Then let the capital send their golden boy. I've got weeds to ignore and ale to drink."
Sable's voice stayed low. "Sometimes trouble doesn't wait for heroes. Sometimes it knocks on your door wearing your neighbor's face."
Garret didn't answer. But as they walked, the distant howl echoed again — closer than it had been the night before.
He scratched the scar on his jaw and kept walking.
Another day in Cragmore was ending.
And tomorrow, it seemed, would come armed with more than just weeds and hangovers.
End of Chapter 10